


Transit

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavel makes a cute fool of himself before a stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transit

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Prosti is Russian for sorry, if Google translate can be trusted.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They _say_ these seats have been transformed over centuries for maximum comfort, but after seven hours crammed into one, Pavel’s at the breaking point. The “scenic” route isn’t worth it—he should’ve spent the credits on a shuttle ride. He squirms every which way he can trying to find a way to sleep, but the window’s cold and the metal edge makes it painful to balance his arm on, and the backrest won’t recline far enough back to quite lie down. He tries to use his hat for a pillow, but it doesn’t help. He considers taking off his jacket and pretending it’s a blanket, but that seems silly.

When they screech to a halt at another stop, the door at the far end pops open, and Pavel lets out an internal groan. The familiar robotic voice comes online to describe their current location and inform passengers they have ten minutes they can depart with, if they’re willing to risk getting back in time. Pavel’s legs are slightly numb, and he probably should stretch them but _just wants to sleep_. He just hopes that none of the arrivals take the seat beside him and limit his space even further, though he isn’t using both. It wouldn’t seem right. The train’s already near full. But at least this way, if he falls over in his sleep, he won’t crush anyone. Of course, for that to happen, he’d have to fall asleep in the first place. 

He thinks he might be there, or at least drifting in and out, in the hazy, wild place between rational thought and an unconsciously babbling mind, when a man makes it down the isle to him. The man settles into the seat next to Pavel, a single briefcase landing on the floor between his knees. Pavel’s got a thick suitcase crammed against his legs and another two in the overhead compartment, all with Russian patches for easy identification. The man might be stunningly handsome, the most handsome creature Pavel’s ever seen, with dark hair and high cheekbones and piercing eyes, or Pavel might just be too far-gone to process properly.

Pavel’s got his eyes from a quarter open to closed in the next minute. He’s out of it. Then the train jolts to movement, and he’s aware that he’s shifted from it but doesn’t bother opening his eyes, and he’s asleep before the disembodied voice comes on again.

* * *

He sleeps like a baby: a particularly well-rested one. When he’s finally roused, he tries to fight it, grunting a Russian protest and nuzzling into his oddly firm pillow. He’s dreaming of picking up cats, one at a time, out of a stuffed-full bridge, knowing that if he can just find the right one, he’ll be a full ensign in no time. 

He hears a deep chuckle that couldn’t possibly have come from any of the cats, and then his shoulder’s nudged, and he becomes vaguely aware that he must be dreaming, because even Caitian bridges don’t have _this many_ cats. Still, it’s not a bad dream, and he’s comfortable. He curls tighter into whatever he has a hold of and yawns, then makes the mistake of letting his eyes slide half open. The fluorescent light hurts. 

And he’s staring at a lap that isn’t his—long, fit legs wrapped in black pants, a briefcase on the floor between them. He glances groggily up and finds a ridiculously handsome face looking back at him, bow lips quirked in a slight smile and one dark eyebrow curiously quirked.

Pavel realizes, all at once, that he’s fallen asleep on a stranger’s shoulder. He blushes redder than his uniform and mumbles, “Prosti,” then, in Federation Standard, hurriedly corrects, “Sorry!” He tries to jerk away, realizes belatedly his arms are wrapped around the stranger’s, strewn out on the armrest between, which he untangles at warp speed. The stranger’s grin grows in clear amusement.

“No trouble,” the man smoothly answers, and his voice is like pure silk that makes Pavel shiver. It would have to be a horribly attractive stranger, too. The man then gestures past Pavel to the window, drawling, “Judging by your uniform, you’re headed to the Academy, yes?”

Pavel answers in deliberate Standard, “Yes.” He can see out the window that it’s his stop, and he turns back to dip his head and add, “Thank you!”

“It’s mine, too,” the man briskly replies. He then gets out of his chair, far more gracefully than Pavel could do after so much time traveling. He takes his suite case in one hand, then steps into the isle, already clear—those departing must’ve already left. Out of the overhead compartment, the man pulls down each of Pavel’s bags. He holds them gingerly, one hand around both a suitcase and his own briefcase, as though it all weighs nothing. 

Pavel mutters another, “Thank you,” and takes his third suitcase in both hands, stumbling out to join the man in the isle. He then follows towards the front of their compartment, trying desperately not to stare at the man’s tight ass, falling just beneath a cropped black jacket. The man’s all in black, styled to perfection, perhaps a few years older than Pavel but not out of range. Definitely out of his league. But he knows how to psyche himself up for risks when he really wants something.

On the platform, the man offers back Pavel’s bags. When Pavel takes them, his arms are immediately weighed down, unprepared for it. He mutters again, “Sorry,” and then forces himself to ask, “are you going to the Academy, too?”

“Headquarters,” the man answers, and Pavel immediately knows he must mean the Starfleet one. Then he holds out a hand which Pavel hurries to take and adds, “My name is John Harrison. Look me up if you ever need another shoulder to sleep on—I’m always pleased to aide Starfleet hopefuls.”

Pavel’s taken wordlessly long in the firm, warm handshake. His face is on fire. He’s both embarrassed and delighted. He almost blurts a stupid invitation in Russian, but by the time he’s stopped to think long enough to translate it in his head, John’s hand is already falling away. With a curt nod, John turns to leave, in elegant strides and in the opposite direction Pavel needs to move in to make his next connection. 

He sucks in a breath, gathers up his anvil-like suitcases, and takes off after the best eye-candy humanity has to offer anyway.


End file.
